CHAPTER VI

IN WHICH M. PAUL DESTOURNELLE HAS THE BAD TASTE TO THREATEN TO
UPSET THE APPLE‐CART

HELEN DE VALLORBES rose from her knees and slipped out from under
the greasy and frayed half‐curtain of the confessional box. The atmosphere
of that penitential spot had been such as to make her feel faint and dizzy.
She needed to re‐
page: 423 cover herself. And so
she stood, for a minute or more, in the clear, cool brightness of the nave
of the great basilica, her highly‐civilised figure covered by a chequer‐work
of morning sunshine streaming down through the round‐headed windows of the
lofty clere‐storey. As the sense of physical discomfort left her she
instinctively arranged her veil, and adjusted her bracelets over the wrists
of her long gloves. Yet, notwithstanding this trivial and mundane
occupation, her countenance retained an expression of devout circumspection,
of the relief of one who has accomplished a serious and somewhat distasteful
duty. Her sensations were increasingly agreeable. She had rid herself of an
oppressive burden. She was at peace with herself and with—almost—all man and
womankind.

Yet, it must be admitted, the measure had been mainly precautionary. Helen
had gone to confession, on the present occasion, in much the same spirit as
an experienced traveller visits his dentist before starting on a protracted
journey. She regarded it as a disagreeable, but politic, insurance against
possible accident. Her distaste had been increased by the fact that there
really were some rather risky matters to be confessed. She had even feared a
course of penance might have been enforced before the granting of
absolution—this certainly would have been the case had she been dealing with
that firm disciplinarian, and very astute man of the world, the Jesuit
father who acted as her spiritual adviser in Paris. But here in Naples,
happily, it was different. The fat, sleepy, easy‐going, old canon—whose
person exuded so strong an odour of snuff that, at the solemnest moment of
the confiteor, she had been unable to
suppress a convulsive sneeze—asked her but few inconvenient questions.
Pretty fine‐ladies will get into little difficulties of this nature. He had
listened to very much the same story not infrequently before, and took the
position amiably, almost humorously, for granted. It was very wicked, a
deadly sin, but the flesh—specially such delicately bred, delicately fed,
feminine flesh—is admittedly weak, and the wiles of Satan are many. Is it
not an historic fact that our first mother did not escape?—Was Helen’s
repentance sincere, that was the point? And of that Helen could honestly
assure him there was no smallest doubt. Indeed, at this moment, she
abhorred, not only her sin, but her co‐sinner, in the liveliest and most
comprehensive manner. Return to him? Sooner the dog return to its vomit! She
recognised the iniquity, the shame, the detestable folly, of her late
proceedings far too clearly. Temptation in that direction had ceased to be
possible.

Then followed the mysterious and merciful words of absolu‐
page: 424 tion. And Helen rose from her knees and slipped
out from beneath the frayed and greasy curtain a free woman, the guilt of
her adultery wiped off by those awful words, as, with a wet cloth, one would
wipe writing off a slate leaving the surface of it clean in every part.
Precisely how far she literally believed in the efficacy of that most solemn
rite she would not have found it easy to declare. Scepticism warred with
expediency. But that appeared to her beside the mark. It was really none of
her business. Let her teachers look to all that. To her it was sufficient
that she could regard it from the practical standpoint of an insurance
against possible accident—the accident of sin proving actually sinful and
actually punishable by a narrow‐minded deity; the accident of the veritable
existence of heaven and hell, and of Holy Church veritably having the keys
of both these in her keeping; the accident—more immediately probable and
consequently worth guarding against—that, during wakeful hours, some night,
the half‐forgotten lessons of the convent school would come back on her,
and, as did sometimes happen, would prove too much for her usually
victorious audacity.

But, it should be added that another and more creditable instinct did much to
dictate Madame de Vallorbes’ action at this juncture. As the days went by
the attraction exercised over her by Richard Calmady suffered increase
rather than diminution. And this attraction affected her morally, producing
in her modesties, reticencies of speech, even of thought, and prickings of
unflattering self‐criticism unknown to her heretofore. Her ultimate purpose
might not be virtuous. But undeniably, such is the complexity—not to say
hypocrisy—of the human heart, the prosecution of that purpose developed in
her a surprising sensibility of conscience. Many episodes in her career,
hitherto regarded as entertaining, she ceased to view with toleration, let
alone complacency. The remembrance of them made her nervous. What if Richard
came to hear of them? The effect might be disastrous. Not that he was any
saint; but she perceived that, with the fine inconsistency common to most
well‐bred Englishmen, he demanded from the women of his family quite other
standards of conduct to those which he himself obeyed. Other women might do
as they pleased. Their lapses from the stricter social code were no concern
of his. He might, indeed, be not wholly averse to profiting by such lapses.
But in respect of the women of his own rank and blood the case was quite
otherwise. He was alarmingly capable of disgust. And, not a little to her
own surprise, fear of provoking, however slightly, that disgust had become a
reigning power with her. Never had
page: 425 she
felt as she now felt. Her own sensations at once captivated and astonished
her. This had ceased to be an adventure dictated by merry devilry,
undertaken out of lightness of heart, inspired by a mischievous desire to
see dust whirl and straws fly; or undertaken even out of necessity to
support self‐satisfaction by ranging herself with cynical audacity on the
side of the eternal laughter. This was serious. It was desperate—the crisis,
as she told herself, of her life and fate. The result was singular. Never
had she been more vividly, more electrically, alive. Never had she been more
diffident and self‐distrustful.

And this complexity of sensation served to press home on her the high
desirability of insurance against accident, of washing clean, as far as
might be possible, the surface of the slate. So it followed that now,
standing in the chequer‐work of sunshine within the great basilica,
self‐congratulation awoke in her. The lately concluded ceremony, some of the
details of which had really been most distasteful, might or might not be of
vital efficacy, but, in any case, she had courageously done her part.
Therefore, if Holy Church spoke truly, her first innocence was restored.
Helen hugged the idea with almost childish satisfaction. Now she could go
back to the Villa Vallorbes in peace, and take what measures—

She left the sentence unfinished. Even in thought it is often an error to
define. Let the future and her intentions regarding it remain in the vague!
She signed to Zélie Forestier—seated on the steps of a side‐chapel,
yellow‐paper‐covered novel in hand—to follow her. And, after making a
genuflexion before the altar of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception,
gathered up her turquoise‐coloured skirts—the yellow‐tufa quarries were not
superabundantly clean—and pursued her way towards the great main door. The
benevolent priest, charmed by her grace of movement, watched her from his
place in the confessional, although another penitent now kneeled within the
greasy curtain.—Verily the delinquencies of so delectable a piece of
womanhood were easily comprehensible! Neither God nor man, in such a case,
would be extreme to mark what was done amiss. Moreover, had she not promised
generous gifts alike to church and poor? The sin which in an ugly woman is
clearly mortal, in a pretty one becomes little more than venial. Making
which reflection a kindly, fat chuckle shook his big paunch, and, crossing
himself, he turned his attention to the voice murmuring from behind the
wooden lattice at his side.

Yet it would appear that abstract justice judged less leniently of the
position. For, passing out on to the portico—about the
page: 426 base of whose enormous columns half‐naked beggars
clustered, exposing sores and mutilations, shrilly clamouring for alms—the
dazzling glare of the empty, sun‐scorched piazza behind him, Helen came face
to face with no less a personage than M. Paul Destournelle.

It was as though someone had struck her. The scene reeled before her eyes.
Then her temper rose as in resentment of insult. To avoid all chance of such
a meeting she had selected this church in an unfashionable quarter of the
town. Here, at least, she had reckoned herself safe from molestation. And,
that precisely in the hour of peace, the hour of politic insurance against
accident, this accident of all others should befall her, was maddening! But
anger did not lessen her perspicacity. How to inflict the maximum of
discomfort upon M. Destournelle with the minimum of risk to herself was the
question. An interview was inevitable. She wanted, very certainly, to get
her claws into him; but, for safety’s sake, that should be done not in
attack, but in defence. Therefore he should speak first, and in his words,
whatever those words might be, she promised herself to discover legitimate
cause of offence. So, leisurely, and with studied ignorance of his presence,
she flung largesse of centissimi to right
and left, and, while the chorus of blessing and entreaty was yet loud,
walked calmly past M. Destournelle down the wide, shallow steps, from the
solid shadow of the portico to the burning sun‐glare of the piazza.

The young maws countenance went livid.

“Do you dare to pretend not to recognise me?” he literally gasped.

“On the contrary I recognise you perfectly.”

“I have written to you repeatedly.”

“You have—written to me with a ridiculous and odious persistence.”

Madame de Vallorbes picked her steps. The pavement was uneven, the heat
great. Destournelle’s hands twitched with agitation, yet he contrived not
only to replace his Panama hat, but opened his white umbrella as a
precaution against sunstroke. And this diverted, even while exasperating,
Helen. Measures to ensure personal safety were so characteristic of
Destournelle!

“And with what fault, I ask you, can you reproach me, save that of a too
absorbing, a too generous, adoration?”

“That fault in itself is very sufficient.”

“Do you not reckon, then, in any degree, with the crime you are in process of
committing? Have you no sense of
page: 427
gratitude, of obligation? Have you no regret for your own loss in leaving
me?”

Helen drew aside to let a herd of goats pass. They jostled one another
impudently, carrying their inquisitive heads and short tails erect, at right
angles to the horizontal line of their narrow backs. They bleated, as in
impish mischief. Their little beards wagged. Their little hoofs pattered on
the stone, and the musky odour of them hung in the burning air. Madame de
Vallorbes put her handkerchief up to her face, and over the edge of it she
contemplated Paul Destournelle. Every detail of his appearance was not only
familiar, but associated in her mind with some incident of his and her
common past. Now the said details asserted themselves, so it seemed to her,
with an impertinence of premeditated provocation.—The high, domed skull, the
smooth, prematurely‐thin hair parted in the middle, and waved over the ears.
The slightly raised eyebrows, and fatigued, red‐lidded, and vain, though
handsome eyes. The straight, thin nose, and winged, open nostrils, so
perpetually a‐quiver. The soft, sparse, forked beard which closely followed
the line of the lower jaw and pointed chin. The moustache, lightly shading
the upper lip, while wholly exposing the fretful and rather sensuous mouth.
The long, effeminate, and restless hands. The tall, slight figure. The
clothes, of a material and pattern fondly supposed by the wearer to present
the last word of English fashion in relation to foreign travel, the colour
of them accurately matched to the pale, brown hair and beard.—So much for
the detail of the young man’s appearance. As a whole, that appearance was
elegant as only French youth ventures to be elegant. Refinement enveloped
Paul Destournelle—refinement, over‐sensitised and under‐vitalised, as that
of a rare exotic forced into precocious blossoming by application of some
artificial horticultural process. And all this—elaborately effective and
seductive as long as one should happen to think so, elaborately nauseous
when one had ceased so to think—had long been familiar to Helen to the point
of satiety. She turned wicked, satiety transmuting itself into active
vindictiveness. How gladly would she have torn this emasculated creature
limb from limb, and flung the lot of it among the refuse of the Neapolitan
gutter!

But, from beneath the shade of his umbrella, the young man recommenced his
plaint.

“It is inconceivable that, knowing my cruel capacity for suffering, you
should be indifferent to my present situation,” he asserted, half violently,
half fretfully. “The whole range of
page: 428
history would fail to offer a case of parallel callousness. You, whose
personality has penetrated the recesses of my being! You, who are acquainted
with the infinite intricacy of my mental and emotional organisation! A touch
will endanger the harmony of that exquisite mechanism. The interpenetration
of the component parts of my being is too entire. I exist, I receive
sensations, I suffer, I rejoice, as a whole. And this lays me open to
universal, to incalculable, pain. Now my nerves are shattered—intellectual,
moral, physical anguish permeates in every part. I rally my self‐reverence,
my nobility of soul. I make efforts. By day I visit spots of natural beauty
and objects of art. But these refuse to gratify me. My thought is too turgid
to receive the impress of them. Concentration is impossible to me. Feverish
agitation perverts my imagination. My ideas are fugitive. I endure a chronic
delirium. This by day,” he extended one hand with a despairing gesture, “but
by night”—

“Oh, I implore you,” Helen interrupted, “spare me the description of your
nights! The subject is a hardly modest one. And then, at various times, I
have already heard so very much about them, those nights!”

Calmly she resumed her walk. The amazing vanity of the young man’s speech
appeased her in a measure, since it fed her contempt. Let him sink himself
beyond all hope of recovery, that was best. Let him go down, down, in
exposition of fatuous self‐conceit. When he was low enough, then she would
kick him! Meanwhile her eyes, ever greedy of incident and colour, registered
the scene immediately submitted to them. In the centre of the piazza,
women—saffron and poppy‐coloured handkerchiefs tied round their dark
heads—washed, with a fine impartiality, soiled linen and vegetables in an
iron trough, grated for a third of its length, before a fountain of debased
and flamboyant design. Their voices were alternately shrill and guttural. It
was perhaps as well not to understand too clearly all which they said. On
the left came a break in the high, painted house‐fronts, off which in places
the plaster scaled, and from the windows of which protruded miscellaneous
samples of wearing apparel and bedding soliciting much‐needed purification
by means of air and light. In the said break was a low wall where coarse
plants rooted, and atop of which lay some half‐dozen ragged youths,
outstretched upon their stomachs, playing cards. The least decrepit of the
beggars, armed with Helen’s largesse of copper coin, had joined them from
beneath the portico. Gambling, seasoned by shouts, imprecations, blows,
page: 429 grew fast and furious. In the steep
roadway on the right a dray, loaded with barrels, creaked and jolted upward.
The wheels of it were solid discs of wood. The great, mild‐eyed,
cream‐coloured oxen strained, with slowly swinging heads, under the heavy
yoke. Scarlet, woollen bands and tassels adorned their broad foreheads and
wide‐sweeping, black‐tipped horns, and here and there a scarlet drop their
flanks, where the goad had pricked them too shrewdly. And upon it all the
unrelenting southern sun looked down, and Helen de Vallorbes’ unrelenting
eyes looked forth. One of those quick realisations of the inexhaustible
excitement of living came to her. She looked at the elegant young man
walking beside her, appraised, measured him. She thought of Richard Calmady,
self‐imprisoned in the luxurious villa, and of the possibilities of her, so
far platonic, relation to him. She glanced down at her own rustling skirts
and daintily‐shod feet travelling over the hot stones; then at the noisy
gamblers, then at the women washing, with that consummate disregard of
sanitation, food and raiment together in the rusty iron trough by the
fountain. The violent contrasts, the violent lights and shadows, the violent
diversities of purpose and emotion, of rank, of health, of fortune and
misfortune, went to her head. Whatever the risks or dangers, that excitement
remained inexhaustible. Nay, those very dangers and risks ministered to its
perpetual upflowing. It struck her she had been over‐scrupulous, weakly
conscientious, in making confession and seeking absolution. Such timid
moralities do not really shape destiny, control or determine human fate. The
shouting, fighting youths there, with their filthy pack of cards and few
centissimi, sprawling in the unstinted
sunshine, were nearer the essential truth. They were the profound, because
the practical philosophers. Therefore let us gamble, gamble, gamble, be the
stake small or great, as long as the merest flicker of life, or fraction of
uttermost farthing, is left! And so, when Destournelle took up his lament
again, she listened to him, for the moment, with remarkable lightness of
heart.

“I appeal to you in the name of my as yet unwritten poems, my masterpieces,
for which France, for which the whole brotherhood of letters, so anxiously
waits, to put a term to this appalling chastisement!”

“Delicious!” said Helen, under her breath.

“Your classicism is the natural complement of my mediævalism. The elasticity,
the concreteness, of your temperament fertilised the too‐brooding
introspectiveness of my
page: 430 own. It lightened
the reverence which I experience in the contemplation of my own nature. It
induced in me the hint of frivolity which is necessary to procure action.
Our union was as that of high‐noon and impenetrable night. I anticipated
extraordinary consequences.”

“Marriage of a butterfly and a bat? Yes, the progeny should be surprising
little animals certainly,” commented Madame de Vallorbes.

“In deserting me you have rendered me impotent. That is a crime. It is an
atrocity. You assassinate my genius.”

“Then, indeed, I have reason to congratulate myself on my ingenuity,” she
returned, “since I succeed in the assassination of the non‐existent!”

“You, who have praised it a thousand times—you deny the existence of my
genius?” almost shrieked M. Destournelle. He was very much in earnest, and
in a very sorry case. His limbs twitched. He appeared on the verge of an
hysteric seizure. To plague him thus was a charmingly pretty sport, but one
safest carried on with closed doors—not in so public a spot.

“I do not deny the existence of anything, save your right to make a scene and
render me ridiculous as you repeatedly did at Pisa.”

“Then you must return to me.”

“Oh! la, la!” cried Helen.

“That you should leave me and live in your cousin’s house constitutes an
intolerable insult.”

“And where, pray, would you have me live?” she retorted, her temper rising,
to the detriment of diplomacy. “In the street?”

“It appears to me the two localities are synonymous—morally.”

Madame de Vallorbes drew up. Rage almost choked her. M. Destournelle’s words
stung the more fiercely because the insinuation they contained was not
justified by fact. They brought home to her her non‐success in a certain
direction. They called up visions of that unknown rival, to whom—ah, how she
hated the woman!—Richard Calmady’s affections were, as she feared, still
wholly given. That her own relation to him was innocent, filled her with
humiliation. First she turned to Zélie Forestier, who had followed at a
discreet distance across the piazza.

“Go on,” she said, “down the street. Find a cab, a clean one. Wait in it for
me at the bottom of the hill.”

Then she turned upon M. Destournelle.

page: 431

“Your mind is so corrupt that you cannot conceive of an honest friendship,
even between near relations. You fill me with repulsion—I measured the depth
of your degeneracy at Pisa. That is why I left you. I wanted to breathe an
uninfected atmosphere. My cousin is a person of remarkable intellectual
powers, of chivalrous ideals, and of superior character. He has had great
troubles. He is far from well. I am watching over and nursing him.”

The last statement trenched boldly on fiction. As she made it Madame de
Vallorbes moved forward, intending to follow the retreating Zélie down the
steep, narrow street. For a minute M. Destournelle paused to recollect his
ideas. Then he went quickly after her.

“Stay, I implore you,” he said. “Yes, I own at Pisa I lost myself. The
agitation of composition was too much for me. My mind seethed with ideas. I
became irritable. I comprehend I was in fault. But it is so easy to
recommence, and to range oneself. I accept your assurances regarding your
cousin. It is all so simple. You shall not return to me. You shall continue
your admirable work. But I will return to you. I will join you at the villa.
My society cannot fail to be of pleasure to your cousin, if he is such a
person as you describe. In a milieu
removed from care and trivialities I will continue my poem. I may even
dedicate it to your cousin. I may make his name immortal. If he is a person
of taste and ideals, he cannot fail to appreciate so magnificent a
compliment. You will place this before him. You will explain to him how
necessary to me is your presence. He will be glad to co‐operate in procuring
it for me. He will understand that in making these propositions I offer him
a unique opportunity, I behave towards him with signal generosity. And if,
at first, the intrusion of a stranger into his household should appear
inconvenient, let him but pause a little. He will find his reward in the
development of my genius and in the spectacle of our mutual felicity.”

Destournelle spoke with great rapidity. The street which they had now
entered, from the far end of the piazza, was narrow. It was encumbered by a
string of laden mules, by a stream of foot passengers. Interruption of his
monologue, short of raising her voice to screaming pitch, was impossible to
Madame de Vallorbes. But when he ceased she addressed him, and her lips were
drawn away from her pretty teeth viciously.

“Oh! you unspeakable idiot!” She said. “Have you no remnant of shame?”

“Do you mean to imply that Sir Richard Calmady would
page: 432 have the insolence, is so much the victim of
insular prejudice as, to object to our intimacy?”

Madame de Vallorbes clapped her hands together in a sort of frenzy.

“Idiot, idiot,” she repeated. “I wish I could kill you.”

Suddenly M. Paul Destournelle had all his wits about him.

“Ah!” he said, with a short laugh, curiously resembling in its malice the
bleating of the little goats, “I perceive that which constitutes the
obstacle to our reunion. It shall be removed.”

He lifted his Panama hat with studied elegance, and turning down a
break‐neck, side alley, called, over his shoulder:—